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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27305467">No Grave Can Hold My Body Down</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisplacedKey/pseuds/DisplacedKey'>DisplacedKey</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Pilgrimage (2017)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, haunted house au</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:49:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,198</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27305467</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisplacedKey/pseuds/DisplacedKey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The property has been David's domain for centuries. He likes peace and quiet, and has no qualms about chasing away the renters who so frequently try to disturb it. When the young man with the curly brown hair moves in, David assumes it'll be more of the same. But it isn't.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>No Grave Can Hold My Body Down</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The house was a squat white bungalow—one floor, one bedroom, the yard outside sparse and flat. The path leading up to the front door was crooked, weeds waiting to grow in the cracks between the stones. Inside were wood floors and grey walls, black cabinets and dark wood furniture. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David had been wandering the halls for the house’s entire existence. He was there long before it was built, though he couldn’t say exactly how long. He’d been dead for centuries, though he couldn’t say how many. The early parts of his existence—his life, his death, the beginning years of his afterlife—had vanished from his memory. At times he was flooded with emotions he couldn’t place; blinding rage, hollowing grief, profound fear. Sometimes snatches of memory came with them, like the smell of blood or the sight of a rearing horse. These sudden waves of feeling often left him paralyzed and curled up in some dark, closed-off part of the house. Whatever had happened to him while he was alive, David was grateful he couldn’t remember it. All he remembered was his name. He was David, and he haunted this place, and recently “this place” had come to mean a little bungalow in a suburb. He was David, and he preferred to be alone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Many people had moved into the house. He drove them away with the sound of footsteps, the smell of campfire smoke, doors and windows slamming shut, a shadowy figure in the dark. David didn’t mind the living as a rule, but when they moved into his space, he found them intolerable. He tried, of course. He left the house’s living occupants alone for a month before deciding whether to run them out. The answer was always yes. Maybe he was selfish or picky, but the noise and clutter and drama of human life left him feeling flayed raw. Then came the time to sweep dishes off counters and put cracks in mirrors until he restored peace and quiet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Peace and quiet reigned in the house for what felt like a record amount of time before it was interrupted again. David got no warning before a little green car pulled into the driveway, its backseat packed with boxes and bags. He watched from the window as the driver, a thin young man with pale skin and curly dark brown hair, climbed out and walked up to the front door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Damn it</span>
  </em>
  <span>, David thought as the young man pulled out a key and let himself inside. He watched as the young man walked through the house, running his fingers along the walls and furniture. “Not too bad,” he said aloud, and smiled to himself. “Yeah, this...this could work.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The new occupant didn’t have much stuff. His clothes—drab sweaters and jeans—didn’t even fill the dresser. Most of the dishes were plain white and didn’t even fill two cabinets. His decorations consisted of framed photos, knitted afghans, and scented candles. A bag containing balls of yarn and bristling with knitting needles sat at the foot of the bed. Over the bed itself, the kid spread out an old quilt. A curled-up yoga mat sat under the bed, and a little rainbow flag poked out of his pencil holder. The most substantial change took place in the living room, where the young man set up an IKEA bookshelf. He filled it with books about religion, history, child psychology, poetry, and knitting. Once he finished unpacking, which took most of the day, he went grocery shopping. David took the chance to snoop more thoroughly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Poking around in his things—the kid kept journals—told David that the kid’s name was Diarmuid Halloran. It looked like he would be the only one living there, which was nice. If the shelves of books and knitting bag were any indication, Diarmuid was the quiet type. Though for all David knew, Diarmuid liked to blast heavy metal music while knitting. That would be just his luck.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The framed photos showed a younger Diarmuid with an older man, his hair and beard streaked with grey. Presumably, his father or grandfather. A picture of his high school graduation showed him grinning with the same man, whose hair was now a solid silver. College graduation was the same. There was no woman in sight, so it must have been a single-parent household. They looked happy, though. They smiled in every picture, their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Diarmuid came back with two arms weighed down by reusable shopping bags, nudging the door shut with his foot. He hummed a song David didn’t know as he put the groceries away and made a heaping bowl of pasta for dinner. He set his laptop on the coffee table and played some brightly-colored fantasy cartoon as he ate. Halfway through, his phone rang. Diarmuid smiled and picked it up. “Hey, Dad! How are you? I’m eating dinner.” A pause. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it’s real food, I know how to cook! I only got about a thousand lessons.” Another pause. “The place? Oh, it’s great! I know you worried, but there’s nothing wrong with it. Everything’s in working order and I got my stuff unpacked already. A bit cold, I guess, but—” A much longer pause, and then a sigh. “I know it was weirdly cheap, but it seems fine. If the ceiling falls in or the oven explodes, you’ll be the first one I’ll tell.” He laughed. “I’ll be fine! I’m worried about you, though—if you need any help, don’t hesitate to call.” Diarmuid sucked down a forkful of noodles as his father spoke, and then he choked as he burst into laughter. He slapped himself on the chest and swallowed hard. “No, you’re right,” he rasped. “You’ve caught onto my scheme, Dad. The nursing home is only weeks away.” He dissolved into giggles, and the sound made something twist in David’s chest. They talked for a little while longer before Diarmuid hung up and sighed happily. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kid seemed nice. Quiet, well-mannered, had a good relationship with his dad, neat and organized—perhaps David’s most tolerable roommate yet. Well, he had a month to find out. After that, it was only a matter of time before the kid hightailed it like all the others.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>David didn’t notice when the end of the month came and went. Diarmuid had been an extraordinarily tolerable roommate. For one, he was gone a lot; he worked at a bookstore, went to class, and attended Mass. Whatever time he spent at home was usually used for schoolwork, yoga, or knitting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Diarmuid was working to get his master’s degree in child welfare and protection. This involved neat cursive notes, boring textbooks, and more coffee than seemed healthy for a single person to consume. Sometimes David wanted to slap the mugs off the table to keep the kid from having a heart attack. Other times, usually in the small hours of the morning, he was tempted to shut the laptop and force the kid to go to sleep. As admirable a pursuit as it was, Diarmuid was exhausted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Knitting seemed to be an escape from schoolwork. There was no listening to heavy metal music. Whenever Diarmuid sat down to knit, he watched cartoons or listened to podcasts. He was a prolific knitter, churning out scarves, hats, gloves, and socks like it was his life’s mission. Apparently he gave them to homeless shelters. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yoga was an interesting daily exercise. David watched, bemused, as the young man bent into all sorts of uncomfortable-looking positions. The instructional videos said a lot of stuff about cores and energy and the earth, though David wasn’t sure what any of that had to do with Diarmuid splaying out like a starfish while balanced on one leg. There were some parts of the world he didn’t think he’d ever understand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Diarmuid’s father, Ciaran, visited the house on a weekly basis to eat dinner and watch a movie. He came bearing his own home-cooked dishes and desserts. He chided Diarmuid for the dark circles under his eyes and fretted over whether he was getting enough good food. “Have you lost weight?” the older man said, squinting at his son’s waist or inspecting his wrists. “Are you sure you’re eating enough? If you need any food, I—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Dad</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Diarmuid said in exasperation. “I’m fine, I swear!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re too skinny,” Ciaran grumbled. “Are you sure you gained back all the weight you lost last year?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David raised an eyebrow. Diarmuid had </span>
  <em>
    <span>lost</span>
  </em>
  <span> weight? He was already thin; David agreed with Ciaran in that he could stand to gain a few pounds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Diarmuid frowned. “Yes, Dad. Will you please stop hovering?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ciaran sighed and clasped Diarmuid’s hands in his. “Alright, alright. But you can’t stop me from worrying.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Diarmuid smiled and kissed his father on the cheek. They moved to the living room and Diarmuid searched through his movie collection. Ciaran sat on the couch and looked over Diarmuid’s latest knitting project.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you sure the cooking is going okay, though? It always smells like smoke in here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s not me!” Diarmuid said, laughing. “It’s the house. And I like it. It smells like one of those fall-themed candles.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ciaran took a deep sniff and frowned. “You should get it checked out just in case.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary. The landlord mentioned the smell before I signed. He said he’d checked and that everything was in working order.” Diarmuid shrugged. “A little quirk, nothing to worry about.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ciaran didn’t look so sure, but he didn’t say anything more. Diarmuid sat up straight and showed Ciaran his pick for the night: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pride and Prejudice</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The older man sighed and smiled. “An old favorite, then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m a sucker for a good romance,” Diarmuid said. He sat down and picked up his knitting needles. Their faint clicking served as familiar background noise as David lingered behind the couch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Fall-themed candles</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That was a new one. Nobody ever described...well, anything about David that positively. He was used to being the creepy specter that drove people away. A lot of them got unnerved by the things he couldn’t control, like the smoky smell, or the cold, or the creaking footsteps. It warmed them up for the inevitable haunting that drove them away for good.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> been inevitable. Until Diarmuid. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Why was he so different? Why hadn’t David run him out yet? It wasn’t just a matter of Diarmuid being a quiet tenant, or a relative loner who only ever had one guest. Several of the house’s other inhabitants had been quiet or private people, and David had had no problem chasing them off. No, it was something more with Diarmuid. He was different in a way David couldn’t quite put his finger on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The answer came to David about halfway through the movie: Diarmuid was </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He was kind, hardworking, generous, and attentive. He devoted his time to helping other people, whether it was working toward his degree or making knitwear for strangers. After well over a month, David had yet to hear him swear or say something rude about another person. He hummed while he did chores and did his inexplicable yoga routine no matter how tired he was. Diarmuid was just...good.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David rubbed the back of his neck. Those sappy movies were rubbing off on him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>David wasn’t sure how long Diarmuid had been living at the bungalow when a quiet sob broke the night’s silence. David, who had been wandering around the house as usual, zeroed in on the sound like a hawk. He passed through the walls until he reached Diarmuid’s bedroom and found him with tears rolling down his cheeks, trembling through a nightmare.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The fear looked so wrong on Diarmuid’s face that David was struck dumb. Another sob brought him back to his senses, but he didn’t know what to do. David was good at scaring people, not soothing them. Yet to walk away and leave Diarmuid to his misery was unthinkable. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David stood by Diarmuid’s bed for what felt like an hour before he finally came up with something that could work. He perched at the edge of the bed and focused until he felt solid, corporeal. He reached out and gently carded his fingers through Diarmuid’s curls. He hummed a song from somewhere deep in his faulty memory. Once upon a time it might have had words, but they were long forgotten. It was one of the few good things that the waves of emotion had ever brought him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Diarmuid’s brows drew together and his breathing hitched. His hair was soft against David’s hand. Thin beams of moonlight slipped through the cracks in the curtains and illuminated the tears clinging to his eyelashes. David hummed and caressed until Diarmuid’s breathing evened out and the tears dried on his cheeks. He hugged his arms to his chest and turned his head to press his face into his pillow. He murmured something too quiet and garbled for David to understand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something warm and soft took root in David’s chest. He pulled his hand back and watched the young man sleep peacefully until the sun rose. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*Mushu voice*: I LIIIIIIVE</p>
<p>I've been working on this for...a while now, and figured Halloween was as good a time as any to finally finish and publish the first chapter. I can't promise I'll have the second chapter done anytime soon since schoolwork takes priority, but I promise it'll come out eventually!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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